


Peaches & Cream

by corrosyves



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Creampie, Cum Eating, Cum Swallowing, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Fisting, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pancakes, Peach Fucking, Pining, Public Blow Jobs, Rimming, Wet Dream, rusty trombone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrosyves/pseuds/corrosyves
Summary: “What?” Lazar’s stomach dropped. Dry mouthed, he didn’t think as he asked, “Does this have to do with Damianos?”“He asked me to dinner.” Laurent brushed a hand through his hair, throwing Lazar a sideways glance through gilt lashes. “I said yes, obviously.”
Relationships: Background Nikandros/Lykaios, Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Implied Damen/Jokaste, Laurent/Lazar (Captive Prince), Lazar/Pallas (Captive Prince)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onekingdomonce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekingdomonce/gifts).



> I wrote this for fun and it’s utterly filthy. Please enjoy and happy new year!

Lazar strolled into his Thursday morning class, excuse poised on his tongue for not having done last night’s assigned reading. When he’d been forced to sign up for Hellenic Literature, he’d expected an absolute tragedy against human joy, and though that was a part of it, he’d found more than enough reasons to stay. One such reason was currently sitting to his left. 

Laurent de Vere was smart. Real smart. He’d doubled up on classes in high school and managed to graduate early. And now he was breezing through the very same class Lazar struggled to even bother attending. To add insult to injury, he was also pretty as sin, and courting him had proved a Herculean task. 

It had started with sacrificing lunch to “study” in the library with him, then after school, alone in a classroom. Lazar had finally convinced Laurent to pay a visit to his dorm room where they spent a good hour pouring over their textbooks. And Lazar couldn’t help but notice the way the corner of Laurent’s lip now quirked at Lazar’s quips. And Laurent had caught his gaze, living gold in the lamplight, eyes shimmering with a newfound headiness. 

Lazar had been the one to kiss him, fit their mouths together in a warm embrace and taste the bitter coffee on Laurent’s lips. He’d propped Laurent on top of his desk and took him there, both of them indifferent to the mess of papers they caused to scatter about the floor. 

In the golden glow of that night, those icy eyes of Laurent’s had never once threatened to melt. Never once yielded even as their bodies pressed stifling tight. And they were practically arctic as they looked at Lazar now. 

“Hey,” Lazar said. 

“Hmm?” Laurent regarded him briefly before returning to his book. He sound especially excited to see Lazar and they both knew why. “Yes?” 

  
“I didn’t read.” 

  
“You’re a fucking idiot.” 

  
“ _Language_ , de Vere.” Professor Isagoras said as he entered the classroom, owl-ears sharp as ever. “Not in my class.” 

  
Laurent said, “Sorry, professor.” 

  
“Don’t lie either.” 

  
A laugh rang from a few rows back, and Lazar didn’t even have to look to know it was one of the damn football players. 

  
Isagoras slapped down an overflowing folder onto his desk. “Alright, last night, my dog got sick. And _I_ had to take her to the vet at _two-in-the-morning_. So, today I thought I’d be _kind_.” 

  
“ _Kind_ ” really meant a work period restricted to whispering and an unspoken understanding to, by no means, approach Isagoras.

There was no happiness behind Isagoras’ smile as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You’ll be working in pairs for this project and today is a workday. Hurrah.” 

  
Laurent sighed into his book. 

  
“Don’t get too excited. I’ve already assigned you your partners.” Isagoras whipped out his phone and began reading off the pairs: 

  
“Nikandros and Lykaios.” The two of them gave a resounding high-five. 

  
“Damianos and Laurent.” 

  
_Great_. There went Lazar’s best chance of passing this exam—an analytical essay on _The Bacchae_. He stole a glance at Laurent, who in turn was stealing a glance at Damianos. Lazar couldn’t blame him, the man was a walking statue with the disposition of a labrador. 

The professor continued through his list and Lazar felt his college diploma agonizingly slipping through his fingers with every name he called that wasn’t Lazar’s own. _Please be someone good. Please be someone good. Please be—_

“Lazar and Pallas.” 

  
_Thank fuck_. Lazar buried his face in his hands in an attempt to hide the massive sigh of relief that escaped him. 

  
Quietly shutting his book, Laurent stood and made to leave. Lazar said, “Come by this weekend?” 

  
“Sunday. Ten o’clock.” Laurent didn’t bother looking at him as he gathered up his belongings. 

  
“That early?” 

  
“I could _not_ come by.” 

  
“Fine.” Lazar conceded. “Sunday at ten.” 

  
Laurent walked over to where Damianos was sitting, plopping his bag down and sliding into the chair next to him.

Lazar himself waited for Pallas to move seats towards him— _he_ certainly wasn’t going to move. But no such thing happened and Lazar spent the rest of class flipping between SparkNotes and a Word Doc while Pallas silently typed up an outline. 

  
Lazar was perfectly fine with that. He didn’t need another one of Damianos’ lackeys complaining about being partnered with Lazar instead. Pallas especially was guilty of such, it didn’t take a detective to see that the guy had eyes for his quarterback. 

  
It was hard to decide if them being on the same football team for years made that better or worse, but he wasn’t particularly sorry for the guy because Lazar didn’t particularly like him. Not Pallas’ fault—well, not _completely_ —but, Lazar couldn’t stand the familiar smell of desperation. 

  
As the bell signaled the end of class, Lazar heard something even more alarming. Laurent. More specifically, Laurent was _laughing_. Laughing at something Damianos has said, and Damianos’ smile was positively dripping with charm as he gazed at Laurent. 

  
Lazar had only seen him laugh like that once, and he wasn’t even the one to spark it. A pit began to sink within his stomach, crushing everything in its wake. Lazar knew this feeling all too well. But Laurent had chosen him. Laurent was coming over to Lazar’s that very weekend with the very explicit goal of getting dicked down. 

  
_It’s fine_. Lazar told himself. Damianos managed to break through everyone’s facade at some point. It was just natural to him. And it was natural for Laurent to laugh for Damianos just as everyone else did. 

  
It was fine. 

  
***

Lazar took what he got in the dorms while Laurent lived off-campus with his older brother, Auguste, in a very nice apartment. He’d only been there a handful of times since Laurent never invited him over when Auguste was there. 

  
Knee bouncing impatiently as he sat on his bed, Lazar opened up his texts to a contact simply saved as _L_. He quickly typed and sent his message. 

  
_U still coming?_

  
Laurent wasn’t one to be late. The reply arrived a moment later. 

_On my way._  
_Bus was late._

_Get a license_

  
Laurent still relied on Auguste to drive him everywhere, and there was _no fucking way_ he would drive his little brother to a hookup—much less one involving Lazar. 

  
The knock on his door came later than Lazar would have liked. That didn’t stop him from taking his sweet time before finally answering the door, lest he appear too eager. Unbothered, blue eyes greeted Lazar as he swung the door open. 

  
Lazar grinned down at him. “You look so eager.” 

  
Laurent wordlessly pushed past him and paused before entering Lazar’s room, hand perched on the doorframe. From over his shoulder, “Well?” 

  
Strolling into the room, Lazar locked the sock-clad door from the inside. Laurent, less than amorously, plopped his bag to the floor and began stripping himself of his clothes. 

  
Lazar followed suit, save for his boxers. “What took you so long? The bus comes every fifteen minutes.” 

  
Laurent dropped his pants, briefs and all. He leaned over the bed, using an elbow to prop himself up as his other hand moved to pull one of his cheeks apart. A slender finger ran itself down the cleft of that perfect ass. “Here.” 

  
Something glittering was pressed between them. Lazar swallowed. “Is that what I think it is?” 

  
“Come and find out.” 

  
In a single breath, Lazar’s hands were kneading at the muscles of Laurent’s ass, liking the way it didn’t completely give under his grip. He pried those cheeks apart and unapologetically stared at the glass plug buried in Laurent’s hole. Lazar kneeled, failing to hide his grin as he took a closer look. 

  
Laurent’s entrance was a tantalizing shade of pink—darkest at the edges where it was stretched around the plug, not a massive thing, but large enough to know it was there. Lazar felt a throb in his cock as he imagined Laurent stepping onto a public bus, hole slick and open beneath his jeans as he struggled not to blush, the other occupants going on with their days, none the wiser. 

  
Lazar licked his lips as he tugged at the base of the plug. “Nice view.” 

  
“I know.” 

  
And there was that frigid facade again. Lazar had had quite enough of it for now. He moved the plug in-and-out, slowly at first, and as Laurent’s hole relaxed to accommodate the width, Lazar inserted a finger in alongside it. 

  
Pressing into that heated tightness, down against those smooth walls, wrung a shudder out of Laurent, who clenched around the finger and rocked back against Lazar’s hand. “Fuck me.” 

Lazar chuckled, “Already begging for it? You’ve turned into a slut.” Removing only the plug, he let his finger linger inside, pulling it out only to massage the fluttering muscles of Laurent’s rim. His hole looked inviting. 

  
Laurent was being wonderfully pliant today, perhaps it reassured Lazar more than it should have. With his cock achingly hard in his boxers, he didn’t mince any more words. 

  
He stood, briefly admiring the curves of Laurent’s body as he presented himself. Lazar craned over him, lips brushing against the back of Laurent’s neck, delighted by the gooseflesh he raised there. Lazar’s voice was gruff, “Get on the bed.”   
  


Laurent obeyed, crawling over to the headboard, turning so that his back rested against the pillows. He parted his legs, reaching between them to probe at his entrance, a plush lip caught between his teeth as Laurent fucked two of his fingers inside for good measure. Shiny with lube, they made an obscene sound as they left him. 

  
Settling into the space made for him between Laurent’s milky thighs, Lazar pulled out his length. He positioned himself towards his target, tip catching the rim, though he didn’t push in right away, reveling in the feel of Laurent unfurling for him. 

  
“ _Lazar_.” Impatient, Laurent rolled his hips, ensuring that his slick hole teased at Lazar’s cock. He gasped as Lazar entered him, the slow press forwards into Laurent’s body an excruciating kind of bliss. He sank inside, inch by inch, hot enough to melt him. Lazar’s hands pressed bruises into Laurent’s hips, his hold on him only laxing once he’d bottomed out. Both of them were already panting. 

  
Laurent’s lips lay wet and parted and Lazar licked a kiss into them, feeling the exchange of breath between them, the clenching and unclenching of Laurent around his length as he adjusted to the insertion. 

  
Laurent broke the kiss, bringing his lips to Lazar’s ear. In a salacious whisper that sent a shiver down Lazar’s spine, “ _Fuck me_. I can’t take it anymore. _Please, just_ —” His voice broke off into a sweet moan as Lazar started moving. 

  
He knew Laurent usually liked it slow, no matter how hard he’d tried to hide the fact. But today it seemed as though neither of them could hold back. 

  
Lazar’s hips worked, pumping into Laurent, hands hooked under his knees and holding him open. Laurent looked a wet-dream as he was fucked wide on Lazar’s length, hand white-knuckled fists on the pillows. From the tips of his ears to the plane of his chest, Laurent burned scarlet, his own lust apparent in the leaking tip of his burgeoning cock. 

  
Entering as deeply as he could, Lazar lay flush against Laurent, left breathless under the weight of another body. 

  
“ _What—?_ ” Laurent’s brows knit. 

  
“Put your arms around me.” 

  
Without protest, Laurent’s slim arms came to wrap themselves around Lazar’s form, fingers digging into the muscles there as he pulled himself close, nipples hardened to peaks. Laurent rested his head next to Lazar’s, the beating of Laurent’s heart betraying the control of his breath. 

  
Lazar leaned them back into the mattress, back coming to rest upon the sheets, Laurent straddled on his lap for his viewing pleasure. Running appreciative hands up Laurent’s thighs, he rolled his hips—deep and slow and steady. Laurent shuddered. 

  
“Touch yourself.” 

  
Laurent’s glacial stare shot daggers into Lazar for his audacity. Lazar bucked his hips up and a moan slipped through Laurent’s lips. Lazar’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Go on.” 

  
Not giving Lazar the satisfaction of a rise, Laurent heaved a sigh as he reached a hand down for his cock. Those pale fingers of his worked diligently on the head, dipping into the slit and massaging the soft underside. Beads of precum ran down his shaft, slicking his hand and balls as he worked himself. 

  
Lazar moved his hips faster, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room as he chased release. “ _That’s right, just like that_.” Lazar groaned. “ _You’re so sexy like this. Fucking yourself on my cock._ ” 

  
They were both close. Laurent’s mouth fell open, head arcing back as he released into his hand, pearls of cum dripping down his hand. 

  
Lazar watched him, feeling the searing heat of Laurent’s insides trembling around him, tightening in a vice grip. He was the only one who got to see him like this, so open and wanting for him. Just for him.

“ _Fuck_.” 

  
He pushed deep—white-hot as he emptied himself into Laurent. Lazar could watch his seed leak back out a moment later. 

  
Panting, Laurent slid off of Lazar, leaving a devastatingly chill in his absence. He rolled onto his side, chest rising and falling with the exertion. Lazar sat up, a fervid hand taking the liberty of prying Laurent’s reddened cheeks apart, thumbs dipping into the gaping hole and spreading it wider. His eyes could look nowhere else as his cum dribbled out from within the most intimate part of Laurent. 

  
“Still enjoying the view?” Laurent said, voice a little wisped at the edges. In response, Lazar gave his ass an appreciative squeeze before slipping two fingers in. “Really now?” 

  
After a few more pant-filled moments of Lazar playing with Laurent’s fucked-out hole, Laurent squirmed under his hands—indicating that he wanted to move. Lazar obliged. 

  
“Where’s the plug?” Laurent asked. 

  
Lazar leaned over the side of the bed, retrieving the plug from where he’d discarded it on the floor. He shuffled over to his night drawer, where he kept the wipes he used for various reasons. Graciously, he handed one to Laurent and used another to wipe the plug before handing it back. 

  
“Thanks.” 

  
Laurent rolled the rest of the way off the bed, legs shaky, but he remained standing. With an uncaring press of the plug back into his hole, Laurent reached for his clothes and began redressing—which was odd, as Laurent was never satisfied after only one round. 

  
“You’re leaving already?” Lazar swung his legs over the side of the bed to face him. 

“Yes.” Laurent straightened out his jacket. “I won’t be back. This was our last.” 

  
_What?_

“ _Wha_ _t?_ ” Lazar’s stomach dropped. Dry mouthed, he didn’t think as he asked, “Does this have to do with Damianos?” 

“He asked me to dinner.” Laurent brushed a hand through his hair, throwing Lazar a sideways glance through gilt lashes. “I said yes, obviously.” 

  
Lazar wanted to be angry, furious even. But a part of him had been expecting this, as much as he’d like to deny it. 

  
Damianos was a straight-A student, the star quarterback of the football team, the kind of guy your father would crack open a cold one with. Or your older brother. The kind of guy you wouldn’t be ashamed of showing off. 

  
_I’ll miss you_. Lazar almost said, the words bitter, scorching his throat as he swallowed them down. 

  
Laurent probably hadn’t worn the plug for him. He might have worn it simply for the thrill, but it was likely so _this_ could end faster. _They_ could end faster. 

  
Laurent had taken it upon himself to utilitarianly prep himself and allow Lazar to fuck him one last time. He probably thought it was the least he could do before cutting the poor bastard loose. In turn, he’d been able to rob Lazar the pleasure of any sweet, fleeting final moments together. 

  
He’d missed it this time: the extensive preparation of stretching Laurent on his fingers; brushing kisses along his jaw; biting into the delicate column of his neck; whispering the filthiest things against the shell of his ear as Lazar gradually found ways to take him apart. He’d happily discovered it as one of the few times all the cracks in Laurent’s stone-cold mask revealed themselves as Laurent shattered beneath Lazar’s ministrations. 

  
Laurent took one last sip of his drink before tossing it into the waste bin. He came to stand before Lazar, gazing down at his exposed form. Laurent’s knee sank into the mattress as he brought himself closer. 

  
The taste of coffee was fresh on Laurent’s lips and, for the first time, Lazar willingly chased the biting flavor that, in his mind, was so distinctly Laurent. The feel of Laurent breaking away was sickening. 

  
Lazar said, “You’ve gotta stop drinking that shit.” 

  
“It’s cheap.” Laurent’s eyes softened as he gave a small smile, something akin to nostalgia in his voice. “Goodbye, Lazar.” 

  
***

After Laurent left, Lazar had slept through the entire rest of the day.

Come Monday, his roommates had practically dragged him from his bed and sent him on his merry way. He didn’t have Hellenic Lit that day, which was another day that he could deny Laurent was actually with Damianos, laughing till his cheeks ached. 

  
He was only reminded of that terrible fact when Pallas stormed up to him at Lazar’s usual spot in the library, alone today. 

  
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Pallas’ indignance was not appreciated. 

  
“My what?” 

  
“ _We have an essay due at_ _the end of the week_.” Noisily pulling out a chair, Pallas sat down across from Lazar. In Laurent’s seat. 

  
“Yeah.” 

  
Eyes aflame, Pallas hissed a, “ _So?_ ” 

  
“‘ _So_ ’, what?” 

  
“ _Get to fucking work_.” 

  
Oh, right. He had a class to pass. Pallas was already pissed with him, Lazar guessed it wouldn’t hurt to drown himself in work before turning to the bottle. 

  
Lazar did manage to get some work done, but every time he looked to Pallas he felt that telltale ache deep in his gut. Pallas was not unattractive, but in Laurent’s place, he was so evidently unlike him. His coloring darker, his build larger, his hair longer, fiery in the wake of Laurent’s lingering chill. 

  
And absolutely no tact for deception. It could have been cute, but Lazar found himself growing bored by it. He snatched up his things. “I gotta go.” 

  
“ _Wait_.” 

  
Lazar’s patience drained. “ _What?_ ” 

  
“Are you alright?” There was genuine concern in Pallas’ words, his eyes raking over Lazar’s disheveled form. “Did something happen?” 

Lazar leered towards him, a childishly spiteful glee filling him at the flush he’d caused on Pallas’ face. Laurent would have never lost his composure like that. “ _You would know better than I do_.” 

  
Pallas was glued to Damianos’ side. It was certain he’d seen Laurent there too. The bashful thing, nevertheless, continued. “I don’t know if it’ll make you feel better, but Nikandros is having a party tonight. For his birthday. If you want to go.” 

  
Was this pity? 

  
“ _Of course_ he throws a party on a Monday.” 

  
“Then you don’t have to go.” Tight-lipped, Pallas shut his laptop and walked off before Lazar had the chance to, damn him. 

  
If Pallas didn’t want him there, then that was exactly where Lazar would be. Besides, he could be cute when he was angry. 

  
*** 

  
Lazar didn’t know the address, but Lykaios had been more than happy to have another person come over to celebrate her boyfriend’s birthday. She’d even given Lazar gift recommendations, And he’d dropped by a store with pop-culture laden products and had them gift wrap his purchase. 

  
Perfect. 

  
Nobody asked for an invite when he’d shown up and Nikandros was too drunk to notice Lazar didn’t belong there. It was all jocks and sorority types, far too suburban for the kind of crowd Lazar made his usual conversation with. 

  
The gift in his hand was soon replaced by an amber beer bottle, its contents already pumping through Lazar’s system. It was his second bottle. Lazar saw a flash of golden hair out of the corner of his eye, praying to every god that it was Lykaios. It wasn’t. Laurent had come with Damianos. 

He should have guessed Damianos would make an appearance, Nikandros was his best friend, but Laurent didn’t belong here. He’d never gone to parties like these, never hung around people who were liberal with their platonic intimacies. It stung. He’d so willingly accepted Damianos—had been so easily accepted in turn—and it stung. 

Lazar finished off the bottle. 

On his journey back from one of the coolers, his gaze traveled to the walls, covered in frames family photos—Nikandros and Damianos as children, Nikandros with Lykaios at a game, Nikandros with the football team. The hallway eternally stretched on as Lazar saw the life of a man who was never alone. 

  
He found yet another peculiar sight in a very real Pallas, moping on a set of vacant steps. Seeing him so obviously upset almost made Lazar feel less sorry for himself. He remembered how deceptively charming the guy could be when he blushed. 

  
“Ah, babe, what’s wrong?” Lazar’s sentence drawled at the end. 

  
Pallas whipped around towards Lazar, hair falling over his shoulder. He definitely didn’t look happy. He said, “Your boy toy, that’s what.” 

  
Oh? This was new. Lazar had never known Pallas to speak ill of anyone Damianos deemed worthy enough to stand in his presence. 

  
Lazar was too drunk and tired to bother with an excuse, “What? Laurent? I told you, he dumped me. For _Damianos_ of all people.”

  
“What’s wrong with Damianos?” Pallas stiffened, suddenly something defensive in his disposition. How cute.

Using his foot, Lazar ushered Pallas to the side of the step, allowing both of them to sit side-by-side. Pallas pulled his knees to his chest. 

  
Lazar heard the smile in his own voice, “ _Nothing_ , and that’s the problem. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?” He took a swig. “Man’s a _fucking adonis_.” 

  
“You can stop talking now.” 

  
“Ouch.” Lazar winced for effect. 

  
Pallas’ chin came to rest on his knees, his deep, brown eyes focused on Lazar. He sighed, a bite of alcohol clinging to his breath. “What do you want?” 

  
“You look upset,” Lazar shrugged. “Tell me why.” 

  
“Why?” 

  
“Because I told you why _I’m_ upset. I showed you, now you show me, _mon chér_.” Lazar toasted to the emptiness about them. People seemed to unwind easier when he brought out some French. 

  
“I’m not against punching you.” 

  
“Sure,” Lazar sipped. “Now spill.” 

  
Pallas turned his gaze away as if it would reveal too much. “I’ve...admired Damianos for a long time.” 

  
Lazar nodded as if hearing this for the first time. Pallas continued, “But, he had a girlfriend. And when she left him, he was so broken up about it that I never took my chance. And now…” He trailed off. 

  
It was a well-known fact that Damianos Akielos had a thing for blondes. And with someone as effortlessly captivating as Laurent de Vere, both Lazar and Pallas had come to the realization that it had only been a matter of time before the two had become _properly_ acquainted. 

  
“I feel so pathetic,” Pallas grumbled, eyes wavering. 

  
“Let’s get pancakes.” Lazar grappled a hand on Pallas’ shoulder as he hoisted himself up. He didn’t feel like watching a grown man cry, alone in a stairwell. 

  
“Excuse me?” 

  
“I hate feeling pathetic. It makes me feel all empty and useless, like there’s nothing worthwhile in me.” Reaching a hand down to his belly, Lazar’s wandering fingers rucked up the hem of his shirt, examining the expanse of skin he found there. He could almost see how hollow inside he truly was. “Pancakes fill that void right up.” 

Lazar, heedless of how he’d simply exposed the pale flesh of his taut abdomen, could feel Pallas’ eyes boring into him. Sucking in a breath, Pallas said, “Are you an idiot?” 

  
“Are you getting pancakes with me or not?” Hand smoothing his shirt back in place, Lazar poured out his bottle into a houseplant. 

  
Pallas looked like he wanted to say something more, but settled for a curt, “Fine.” 

  
And that was how the two of them ended up in the corner booth of a twenty-four-hour diner, skimming through the breakfast menu at nine in the evening. 

  
Thumbing lazily through the endless options, Lazar noticed Pallas, restless in his booth seat, his dark eyes widening with every word he read. 

  
“What’s wrong with you now?” Lazar said. 

  
“These options sound exceedingly unhealthy.” 

  
“Oh my god.” 

  
“I’m _on_ the football team.” 

  
“And _now_ you’re on my last nerve.” Lazar motioned for the waitress—a plump woman with rosy cheeks—and she bustled over to their booth. 

  
Pad and paper at the ready, she asked, “Yes, what can I get you, boys?” 

  
“I’ll get the Strawberry Shortcake Stack.” An absolute classic. A titan of pancake. 

  
“Alrighty,” the waitress’ pen scribbled down the order and then it was Pallas’ turn. “And you, hon?” 

  
“I’ll, uh…” Pallas, visibly sweating, pointed at the menu. “I’ll have the Peach Parfait Stack.” 

  
When their food arrived, Pallas blanched at the sight of the stacks. Between each pancake, a layer of whipped cream and fruit, all topped with a gooey compote. Nudging the plate away from himself, he said, “It’s worse than I feared.” 

  
His eyes met Lazar’s. “I’m not even hungry.” 

  
“Then why did you order pancakes?” 

  
“ _You made me order pancakes_.” Pallas leaned closer, whisper-yelling as to not alert the other diners of his breakfast bind. Lazar just wanted to eat in some fucking peace. 

  
Wagging a forkful of strawberry pancake in Pallas’ face, Lazar cocked a brow. “Oh!, so now _I’m_ the asshole?” He shoved the entire portion in his mouth, whipped cream clinging to his lips. 

  
Pallas said, “I hate you.”

He glowered down at his untouched plate of food, the whipped cream melting down the sides. With a defeating slouch of his shoulders, Pallas took up his utensils and began cutting his food into pieces like the well-mannered little boy Lazar knew him to be. 

  
Lazar could almost swear Pallas’ hand was shaking as he brought the food to meet his lips, mouth quivering as it closed around the fork. He chewed. Swallowed. “It’s good.” 

  
Lazar wiped his mouth. “Sappho herself could not have said better.” 

  
“Why are you doing this?” 

  
“I wanted pancakes.” 

  
“Stop fucking around.” 

  
“ _I already told you_.” Lazar crunched on an ice cube for the hell of it. “You looked upset.” 

  
Pallas’ mouth tugged into a smile, the shine of his dark eyes squeezing at something in Lazar’s chest. Voice honey-thick and far too coy for him, Pallas said, “And how do I look now?” 

  
Smothering the odd feeling, Lazar comfortably mimicked Pallas’ expression and said the only thing he could say: 

  
“Peachy.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I’ve been kinda sick lately.

Lazar didn’t get home till midnight. He and Pallas had waited for the late bus under a flickering streetlight, and Pallas was so spooked, he’d almost forgotten his phone.

Before handing it back, Lazar had taken a peek at the lock screen: the varsity team winning last year’s championship. He noted that this specific photo featured Damianos with a firm grip on Pallas’ shoulder.

To Damianos’ other side stood what had to be the most beautiful woman Lazar had ever laid eyes on. Her hair spun gold, with wintery eyes that froze Lazar as he met her gaze. Her long legs exposed, but her Junoesque figure shawled in the shimmering Captain’s jacket, the breast embroidered with a yellow “ _Damen_ ”.

Lazar didn’t need to know her name to know she was Damianos’ ex. He didn’t need to know anything apart from this one image of her to know she was just like Laurent—cold, elegant, the kind to leave you with an addicting self-loathing you’d mistake for reverence.

Instead of smashing the phone, Lazar handed it back to Pallas as he sat in the seat next to him. Unwinding himself, their thighs came to touch, far more comforting than the grimy cushions.

“Oh.” Pallas took the phone. “Thank you.”

“I’m the drunk one, not you.”

“You take it better than I do.”

Lazar blinked. “ _I what?_ ”

Pallas blinked back. “ _Wait_.” His hands rose in defense, face flaming red. “I didn’t mean—not like that—about alcohol, _I swear_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _Christ_.” Pallas’ head thumped back against his seat and he stared at the roof, once again avoiding Lazar’s gaze. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I didn’t think you were one to top.”

“Stop.”

“But the long hair definitely gives them something to yank on.” Lazar’s grin was wide.

“ _Fucking_ —”

“Bet you’ve got the tackle on lockdown—”

Pallas clapped a hand over Lazar’s mouth in a last-ditch effort to halt his tirade. His hand was warm against Lazar’s lips and he was tempted to lick at his fingers. He decided otherwise, for now, but it was too bad for Pallas, as they had already traded numbers. Lazar’s mind was actively cooking up all the things he could send to make him flush through the screen.

A sugared sigh left Pallas as he removed his hand, popping in his headphones before Lazar could say anything else. They sat in silence for the rest of the ride, but the air sat lighter than it had at Nikandros’ party. The sound of their breathing, softly in tandem, filled Lazar’s ears until they exited the bus.

They parted from there as Lazar was in Belloy Hall, while Pallas was in Sicyon. Before Lazar walked off, Pallas’ voice spoke out into the nighttime, “Hey, uh, thanks. For the pancakes, I mean. I guess you were right about them.”

Lazar turned to him, saw him standing aglow in the streetlight, still wearing his varsity jacket. “No problem.”

The dorm room was dark when he got back, his roommates surely sleeping soundly in anticipation of the dreaded _Tuesday_. Lazar shuffled through the darkness, cursing as his hip smacked into the edge of a table. Stumbling towards his door, he wriggled out of his shoes and jacket and was asleep before he hit the bed.

Lazar’s mind, even in sleep, had managed to torture him with one of the filthiest dreams he’d had in a long while.

He was at Nikandros’ party all over again, except this time, he hadn’t found Pallas, instead, aiming for Laurent. Easily visible through the crowd with his telltale blonde hair, carelessly pressing kisses to Damianos as their bodies swayed to the music.

They turned to Lazar.

And then Laurent was on top of him, wearing nothing but Damianos’ varsity jacket, blindingly gold as his hips bore down onto Lazar’s. It was a natural position for them, Laurent pushing him down and taking what he wanted. The strange bit came when Lazar felt Damianos at his back, pressing their bodies together as he drunkenly mouthed along his neck.

“ _You’re so good to me_ ,” Damianos hummed into his ear, a buzz running through Lazar’s bones with the sound of it.

They reached for each other, around him, through him, until he was nothing but a hot breath shared between them—only able to watch. What was left of him shimmered with an uncomfortable heat until it began to sear away at him.

His alarm cracked at the side of his skull, sending the splintering feeling of a hangover through him as he lay there. It blared and blared and only after he took a preemptive breath could Lazar roll over and turn it off.

He was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, alcohol and sugar strong on his breath and pillow marks indenting his arms and face.

He was hard.

Worse yet, he had Hellenic Lit that morning.

Lazar pulled on his largest sweatshirt and popped a stick of gum into his mouth for good measure, but peppermint can only do so much for him. He decided against rubbing one out in the bathroom, but long as he didn’t get kicked out of class for being hungover, today could be considered a success.

The class had already split off into their pairs by the time he arrived. Pallas still sat on his side of the room. Isagoras gave him a sharpened side-eye, but didn’t say anything as Lazar took his usual seat.

He plugged in his headphones and pulled his hood up to hide any evidence that Laurent was in the room with him and did his best to find enjoyment in comparing the ritual madness of the maenads to drunkenness. Lazar couldn’t say there was ever a time he’d been in a dismembering type of mood—not drunk, at least.

As the bell rang, and Lazar stood, he looked to the door and accidentally caught Laurent’s gaze. Playfully, his pale brow arched, eyes swiftly assessing Lazar’s disheveled state. Then he was gone.

Lazar shoveled his laptop into his bag. When his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, he scrambled for it, hoping it wasn’t too good to be true.

_Do you want to see a movie?_

Lazar checked the contact. They quickly sent a follow-up.

_It’s for the essay_

Pallas. He was asking Lazar to see a movie with him? For the essay, really? If Pallas wanted to ask him out, he sure was being damn coy about it.

Lazar responded:

_What movie?_

_Bacchante Rising_

Bacchante Rising?

Pallas proceeded to link him an article about the movie, a raving review about its directing and symbolism. Scanning the first few paragraphs revealed that it was a modern retelling of Euripides’ _The Bacchae_.

Then this really was Pallas being Pallas, always going the extra mile, even for a simple essay. What was the point if he was already going to pass the class without it? That was just more effort on Lazar’s part.

He texted:

_When?_

_Tomorrow @ 9pm_

Lazar paused before replying. Pallas wasn’t in the room for him to watch, but he wanted to make him squirm.

_Sure_

_Cool, meet in front of Sicyon Hall @ 7:30_

_That early?_

_We can eat before the movie_

_Is this a date?_

_Fuck off_

Lazar couldn’t help the wheeze that escaped him as he read that last message.

***

It was already 6:30. Lazar’s roommates had invited him along to the canteen, but he’d told them he’d already made plans that night.

“Don’t get drunk again.” Huet had said with a firm pat on the shoulder.

And Lazar had managed to slip out a, “Thank you, daddy.” before getting the door slammed in his face.

And then he was alone again, but not in self-pity this time, simply boredom. He knew that Pallas was going to treat him to dinner, but that didn’t stop his stomach’s grumbling demand for sustenance. And it didn’t stop until Lazar grabbed a peach from the bag on the kitchenette counter.

Rochert’s mother had shipped in a couple bundles of peaches—organic, of course—which he claimed he didn’t even like. He and the others had slowly been making their way through them, giving them out whenever they could. Even then, there was still plenty leftover, now overripe, the skin a deep shade of burgundy.

It was tender to the touch, and if Lazar pressed too hard, he risked breaking the skin. He turned the peach over in his hands, taking time to examine all its crevices.

He dug his fingers into it. They burrowed deep, until they met the pit and carefully took it out in a cascade of juice.

Lazar sucked in a breath.

His face grew warm, and he brought his fingers to his mouth and tasted them until the sweetness coating them dissipated. The insides of the peach were cool as he squished around in them. He longed to spread this sudden warmth that had welled up within him.

Heat pooled in his gut, tugging him downwards until he was sitting on the table, not caring as the juice soaked into the fabric of his jeans and boxers. Lazar brought the peach down towards his crotch. He slid the peach underneath his boxers so it wouldn’t make a mess of the kitchenette.

Lazar shivered as he placed himself inside the peach, only able to get a portion of it in without tearing the fruit in two.

At the mercy of his grip, the juice ran down his thighs in rivulets, and they only continued to slicken with every thrust. He closed his eyes.

That damn dream was coming back to him, the vision of him pressed stifling tight between two bodies, wringing out every drop of pleasure he could give.

Damianos had been there. Had been giving his pleasure to Lazar, trapped betwixt him and Laurent.

The large plane of his chest, sturdy with muscle and olive dark enough to hide the marks Lazar had enjoyed biting into him. An underlying sweetness to it, a softness in those long, dark locks, those deep brown eyes that turned honey gold when they caught the light just right. With blushes so innocent, Lazar had wanted nothing more than to soil him.

His grip on the peach tightened, and it burst in his hand, juice trickling down his fingers, soaking his boxers through. Lazar slumped forward, breath ragged.

 _Shit_.

It was sticky all over.

Pulling the peach out of his pants took a hell-of-a-lot more effort than putting it in. He’d ruined it. The walls flayed apart, its vulnerable insides open to the world. A trail of white threatened to leak from the hole he’d made.

The expected wave of shame never arrived, euphoria in its place, washing over his whole body at the knowledge of what he’d just done.

Lazar sank his teeth into the ruined flesh of the fruit and he tasted his own seed inside. It was odd, tasting a part of himself like this. And as he ate, his mind wandered onto the thought of how Pallas would taste. Just like this, he thought: sweet and bittered by Lazar’s lust on his tongue.

He finished off the peach.

***

After a quick shower, in which he’d masturbated a second time—to make up for the morning’s squandered pleasure—Lazar changed his clothes and headed out to Sicyon hall.

It wasn’t hard to spot Pallas when he was always wearing that gaudy jacket of his. The sleeves didn’t shine like Damianos’, but it was absolutely covered in patches. The largest, plastered on the back, read: _Marlas Spartans 2018 Champions_. And _dear god_ , if that logo wasn’t ridiculous.

Lazar sidled up alongside Pallas, who handed him his ticket. Lazar said, “So why did you invite me to this movie?”

“I’m paying you back.”

“By taking me out on a date?”

“It’s not a date.” Pallas’ voice was flat.

“Dinner and a movie sounds like a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

Lazar signed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “ _Okay, fine_. You win.”

One bus ride later, and Lazar was certain that he had made at least three new enemies, one of which was a lady with a doberman. He would lock his door extra tight tonight.

Apparently, one semen-filled peach wasn’t good enough for whatever beast had made a home in Lazar’s stomach, so he asked, “Where did you want to eat?”

Pallas brightened at the question. “Well, there’s this new Spanish place nearby that just opened up and— _oh shit._ ” And immediately fizzled out.

“What?”

In a strained voice, “I think I left my card back at my dorm.” Pallas’ hands frantically shuffled through his wallet, then searched through any pocket he could find. His eyes were growing wider by the second, Lazar needed to stop this.

“How much cash do you have?”

Pallas stilled. Counted. “Like, ten dollars.”

“That’ll do,” Lazar nodded. And so he went about locating the nearest halal cart, dragging Pallas by the arm as he navigated the unfamiliar streets, his phone a glowing map. The area was a lot nicer than the places Lazar usually haunted.

When they finally came upon a neon plastered cart, Lazar didn’t hesitate as he ordered, “A chicken shawarma wrap and a lemonade.” He looked to Pallas from over his shoulder. “And you?”

Pallas bristled the way he always did when he was out of his element. His eyes shifted back-and-forth between Lazar and the vendor. “Um, same as him.”

“Never had halal before?”

“No.”

“Shocker.”

Lazar shoved an ice-cold bottle of lemonade into Pallas’ hands before he could reply. He popped the cap off on the buckle of his belt and when he looked back to Pallas, Lazar caught him staring down at his belt. At his crotch.

“ _Hey_ ,” Lazar whistled. With a snap of his fingers, “Eyes up here.”

Pallas reddened.

They got their food and settled onto a park bench, the grounds empty save for the occasional jogger. Pallas, once again, took his sweet-damn time—gingerly peeling the foil down from his wrap. He bit into it after Lazar jabbed an elbow into his side.

Neither of them spoke as they ate, but both balled up their foil wrappers and tossed them into the nearby trash can. Downing the rest of his lemonade, Lazar checked his watch. Only 8:45.

Pallas eased back against the bench, his legs unthinkingly spreading apart.

“Hey, Pallas.”

“Hmm?”

Lazar said, “Tell me when, alright?”

“What?”

But Lazar had already swung his leg over Pallas, now straddled in his lap, bellies flush. As his thighs came to rest atop Pallas’, he felt just how solid they were, the firm muscle grounding him to something.

He wasn’t quite sure what had hit him, perhaps an arrow had struck him mad with lust, or perhaps he was still pent up after being left with only fruit to fuck. But, it _had_ been organic—at the very least, he’d deserved _that_ much.

In one, smooth motion, Lazar tucked a lock of Pallas’ hair behind his ear, bringing his hand down to his jaw and tipping it up. Pallas was warm under his fingertips, the glint of the streetlamp in his eyes doing nothing to hide his blown pupils as they went to Lazar. He said nothing.

Lazar thumbed at Pallas’s bottom lip, tugging at it, testing the suppleness.

He slipped his thumb inside and Pallas gasped around it, allowing him to push in deeper. Massaging along the wet expanse of Pallas’ tongue, longing to taste it on his own, he applied more pressure.

“ _Open up_.”

Pallas complied, and as soon as Lazar pulled his hand free, his mouth was on him. It was warmer than anything he’d felt in a long while, and without the bitterness that always threatened to bite him back. Warm and open, but not wholly welcoming.

Pallas’ eyes squeezed shut. Lazar angled his head to the side and slipped his tongue in. Pallas whimpered, but was silenced by Lazar’s hand tugging at his hair. He didn’t remember putting it there.

Lazar was about to pull away—Pallas seemingly uninterested—until an arm wrapped itself around Lazar’s waist and brought him closer, his knees hitting the back of the bench. Pallas deepened their kiss, palm hot on Lazar’s neck. Lazar let his eyes fall closed as well. The air smelled like cinnamon.

The distant sound of a dog barking in the park snatched Lazar’s mind back into the reality that they were very much in public. He closed his mouth around the plush of Pallas’ bottom lip and retreated. Slowly, very slowly, he separated himself, the lip he’d caught between his own bouncing back into place.

He opened his eyes.

Pallas looked a wreck. Lazar never thought someone could blush so vividly; ears, cheeks, creeping up along the collarbones. His lips wet and parted and a deep shade of pink. The rise and fall of his chest that came with an unexpected exertion.

Lazar caressed the thin skin at the base of Pallas’ neck—relishing in the fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips. His hand clamped around Pallas’ shoulder as he dismounted.

He settled back beside him on the bench. After a moment, “So you _can_ be cute.”

“We’re going to be late.”

***

The theater was a nice one, with red velvet ropes and curtains adorning the halls and damask wallpaper, and the _seats_. They came in pairs, cushioned reclining chairs with cup holders in the arms.

“We’re sitting in the back,” Lazar said.

“Why?”

“Because they’re the best seats.”

Lazar immediately pulled the lever on his seat, practically laying down as the previews rolled. There were only four other people in there with them, all of them sitting in the front half, closer to the screen. Art film types.

Finally, the movie started. It was about a man arguing over the ownership of a large chunk of property in Greece. He and his playboy stepson, Dio, squabbled over who had the rights to it.

Reading it had been enough, and seeing it reimagined in a tired modern setting did nothing to get Lazar’s gears turning. He stole a glance at Pallas, completely absorbed in the movie. Lazar wanted to know how he would taste.

“Pallas,” Lazar whispered. “Hey, Pallas.”

“ _What now?_ ”

Lazar pushed up the armrest between them and slid a hand up Pallas’ thigh, stopping just before the junction between leg and hip. He felt the muscles twitch.

“Are you shitting me?”

With a coy smile, Lazar squeezed his hand around the thigh, pulling it towards himself. Leaning close, he licked a line up Pallas’ neck, his other hand moving to palm him through his jeans. He squeezed.

Pallas grunted, hips rolling into the touch. Lazar’s hand made quick work of the button and zipper restraining Pallas to his jeans.

His hand clapped over Lazar’s. “ _What are you thinking?_ ” Pallas hissed into his ear.

“It’s dark. It’ll be fine.”

“What about the movie?”

“Keep watching.” Lazar’s hand moved under Pallas’ briefs, earning him a stifled yelp. “You can tell me about it later.”

His hand closed around Pallas’ hardening cock. The size of it was nice, the weight too. He couldn’t see it very well in the darkened theater, but the silhouette looked decent enough. He’d sucked bigger.

This shouldn’t be too hard.

He kept his strokes firm and steady, allowing Pallas to grow accustomed to the feeling of being jerked off in a public theater. The sound of his breathing was shallow, rapid. Lazar nuzzled into the side of his neck and he felt Pallas’ breath hitch under his lips.

“You’re fine. You’re okay.” Lazar murmured.

Pallas finally seemed aware of himself and did what any good athlete would do—breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Lazar huffed against Pallas’ warming skin.

Pallas’ grew harder in his hand, slicker with every pump, and Lazar decided that it was time. He craned himself over Pallas’ lap and took his cock into his mouth.

Lazar couldn’t see Pallas from the new angle, but from the cut-off sound of pleasure that came from above, he knew exactly how he looked. With a hand on the base and his mouth around the head, Lazar intended to make Pallas cum. Even in the dim light of the theater, he wanted to see just how red he could flush.

The taste of him was dull, inoffensive, the sign of a well-balanced diet. It was strange that he knew that. It was strange how Lazar found it refreshing. Pallas, green and fresh, and on the cusp of blooming, ripening.

Lazar cupped the pair of balls hanging heavy in Pallas’ briefs, kneading them, thumbing down the line of them.

Sucking dick had never been a challenge, nor a chore—not to Lazar, at least. Sometimes you just had to suck a good dick. He rather enjoyed certain parts of it: there was something so intimate about having someone surrender themself, trusting you to give them pleasure.

A part of Pallas was inside him.

For a brief moment, his mind flicked back to Laurent. Lazar imagined him sitting in almost flawless silence, only the barest hint of pink in his cheeks denoting his arousal. And the vision of it failed to spark the kind appetite it used to.

Pallas moaned softly. Lazar’s chest tightened.

He suckled the head, ran his tongue down the sides in wet stripes, hands holding a squirming Pallas in place. He took him deep, until he could feel it pecking at the back of his throat. And he bobbed his head, again and again, with Pallas ribboning his fingers through his hair. Pallas yanked.

“Lazar—” he squeaked.

A wet pop as he removed his mouth, “ _Tais-toi_.” He brought a finger to his lips.

“ _But—_ ”

Lazar was already back on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shadowed outline of a person heading down the aisle, likely for a trip to the restrooms. Pallas’ hand retreated to his armrest, back straightened and taut as a bowstring. Even as he shielded his jacket over Lazar’s head, blocking out his vision in the process, Lazar didn’t mind.

Pallas unwinched, removing the jacket back. He ran a clammy hand down the back of Lazar’s neck. “Let me up. I need to cum.”

Swirling his tongue, dipping it into the slit, Lazar cursed that the darkness of the theater prevented him from giving Pallas one of his signature side-eyes. Coming up again, he brought his lips to Pallas’ ear, breath ghosting along the shell. “Now now, _mon chér_ , this is the best part.”

The air was unbearably hot as Pallas drew him into a wet kiss, his tongue fervently mingling in Lazar’s mouth, his inhibitions blocked out by the screams emanating from the speakers.

In the brief reprieve from the raucous onslaught, Lazar said, “I want you to cum inside me.”

Pallas’ breath caught.

Lazar wanted a part of Pallas to stay with him, and he didn’t waste any more time, only seeking Pallas’ release into his mouth. It was just as he’d imagined it: Pallas’ lips bitten red and raw, muscles flexing with the weight of his own naive virility.

Pallas’ nails dug into his scalp with a sigh, as he came into Lazar’s mouth in hot ropes.

The credits rolled and Lazar did what any gentleman would do, and swallowed. Pallas fiddled to right his pants.

Exiting the theater, Lazar had tied his jacket around his waist to hide his own hard-on. He’d have plenty of material to work with during tonight’s shower.

When the other patrons had vacated the premises, he’d pulled Pallas out of the building, and into the shadowed alleyway beside it, shoving him into the wall with a bruising kiss. Pallas’ hands came to hold Lazar’s hips, clutching them to his own, canting a leg up and in between Lazar’s.

“ _You’re hard_ ,” Pallas gasped out.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re insane.”

“ _I said_ don’t worry about it.”

Lazar sank his teeth into Pallas, who let out a moan into the cool, night air. Lazar sucked at the mark until he knew he’d be able to see it the next day. He’d put his mouth on Pallas and they’d both leave with a bit of each other.

Taking a shuddering breath, Lazar managed to break away, chest heaving. He said, “Thanks for the movie.”

Huet was the first to ask him about his night out, eyeing the purpling hickeys trailing down his neck. Rochert and the others began dogging him as well. When Lazar finally ceded, they all whooped and whistled when he’d admitted to giving head in a public theater.

Before any of them could ask who he’d actually had this lascivious date with, Lazar gave a chef’s kiss, saying, “Supple as a peach _, and thrice as sweet._ ”

He shut and locked his door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super late and probs garbo

Lazar was smiling and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he wanted to see Pallas the moment he’d left him at the theater. He didn’t know why he wanted to see him now, as Lazar lay sprawled in bed, wide awake long before his alarm had gone off, and currently losing precious sleep. Yet he was smiling.

He got dressed.

Thursday morning—Hellenic Lit. And his eyes instinctively swung over to the crowd of football players. Among the sea of dark-haired heads, Lazar spotted him, Pallas' hair longer than the rest.

The group erupted into laughter over something Laurent had said, and something in Lazar’s chest fluttered at the sight of Pallas’ smile, the kind of smile that pinched your cheeks red.

Lazar had grown acutely aware of him and everything he did. Every stolen glance, every flush, the way he bit his lip when he was deep in thought. Lazar remembered those lips on his own, the moment when they had finally parted for him.

Lazar didn’t sit by him. It wasn’t his place. But, for now, he was sated by admiring him from afar.

Pallas handed in the essay, and while Isagoras didn’t even glance at it, he didn’t scowl either. Pallas promptly seated himself between Aktis and Nikandros, pointedly refusing to acknowledge Lazar for the rest of the class. He practically dashed out of the room before the bell finished ringing.

It was during their lunch period that Lazar finally managed to corner him outside, by the vending machines.

Grabbing him by that damned varsity jacket, Lazar dragged him in between two of the machines. Pushed until they met the wall. Lazar barely managed to huff out a gruff, “ _Miss me_?” before applying his mouth to Pallas’ throat.

His lips skimmed along Pallas’ jawline, his fingers scrambling down his body, tearing the jacket open with a snap of the buttons. Lazar’s teeth raked the vulnerable flesh at Pallas’ neck. Felt the bob of his Adam’s apple with every thick swallow and fervent sound.

“I’ve been thinking about you all night.” He was up to Pallas’ ear, where he took the lobe into his mouth and suckled lightly. “I couldn’t stop myself from picturing what I would have done to you if the movie hadn’t ended so soon.”

Lazar’s hands ached, the yellow fabric of Pallas’ jacket still bunched in his fists as he held him in close. Breathing him in, Pallas didn’t smell of halal or movie theater popcorn or secret blow jobs or dimly lit alley kisses. There was no trace of last night on him, save for the numerous hickeys painted along his neck, of which Lazar was generously brightening.

Pallas squirmed helplessly until his athlete’s grip, far stronger than Lazar’s, curled around Lazar’s arms and forced him back.

Stumbling a few steps out of cover, Lazar saw the familiar face of Estienne approaching and then immediately fleeing at the sight of them.

“Don’t tease me,” Pallas said between heaving breaths.

“ _Me_?” Lazar’s voice crescendoed. “Says the guy who's always fluttering his eyelashes at me like some coy virgin.”

And Pallas had the gall to insist, “ _I am not_.” with those big, bright eyes of his. Something in Lazar snapped as he grabbed Pallas’ hips and ground their bodies together, where he was proud to find him faintly roused.

Pallas stopped breathing for a moment.

“You were watching me.” Lazar huffed, “Do you know what that does to me? I’d be happy to show you.”

Burying his head in the crook of Lazar’s neck, Pallas shuddered away the tension he’d likely been holding onto since the moment Lazar had walked into class, perhaps even before that.

When he’d left him hot and pliant against a chilled brick wall, half-hard and red-mouthed—left him in that rakish way Lazar had, for the simple joy of getting the last word. And where Laurent had always recovered via a seething text message the next morning, Pallas had not. Pallas would have stayed in that alley, humming Homeric hymns until his blood stopped pumping to all the wrong places.

There came the tickle of Pallas' thumb along the fine skin of Lazar’s collarbone as he said, “If you want it so bad, come meet me in the locker rooms after practice.”

“What about the others?”

“Wait till they all leave.”

“We could leave right now.” Obviously.

“Lazar, I would love nothing more than to do that, but I’m supposed to be buying a Gatorade _right now_.”

The last thing Lazar needed was the entire football team storming over to see what had happened to their tight end. He knew his limits. “Yes, of course. Electrolytes.”

Pallas chuckled, taking Lazar’s wrists, and pushing both of them out of the alcove with ease.

“ _Oh_ , you’re strong.” Lazar ran his hands down Pallas’ arms, giving his biceps an appreciative squeeze.

“Go away,” Pallas groaned. But his laugh was light on his lips as he kissed Lazar goodbye.

***

Watching the football team’s practice turned out to be an unexpected treat. All those quads and arms threatening to split the seams on their sweat-soaked uniforms. Men ruffling each other’s hair, the occasional, well-meaning slap on the ass. Absolutely incredible.

He spotted Lykaios' shining head of hair down by the wall near the field, surrounded by the rest of her friend group. Strangely, he didn’t see Laurent. From the way he casually made digs at the team members, it had been obvious he must have seen them do something.

Lazar was alone at the top of the bleachers, not unlike how he’d been in the theater. He shuffled on the icy, metal bench, trying not to think too hard about it.

The extended blow of the coach’s whistle signaled the end of an arduous practice.

Pallas shucked off his helmet, damp hair feathering out in the afternoon breeze. He looked tired. He looked happy.

Lazar wanted to stay longer—greet him in the same, almost familial, way the others had. Instead, he snuck off to the locker rooms like Pallas had messaged him to.

_Wait in the seventh shower on the right_

_No one uses it_

_y?_

_Bad luck_

Sporticus here had the superstitions of a Facebook mom when Mercury was in retrograde.

It was fucking cold in that shower. Whether it was the grimy tiles or the dripping faucet or— _fuck_ —what was that _smell_? Crouched down, Lazar pulled his shirt up over his nose and tried to keep his fingers from freezing as he fired up a random game on his phone. It only maddened him further as the latest update had raised the price of a new outfit by a whole _2,500 funkybucks_ , the bastards.

Voices eventually shuffled in with footsteps, male ones, a bit scratched at the edges.

“Man, Coach Mak’s being a real bitch today.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me more, alligator arms.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barieus.”

They started jargoning about wildcats and shotgun snaps and Lazar was on another goddamn planet.

But when he could see their silhouettes stream past the flimsy shower curtain, Lazar did his best to blend into the wall, lest they see him too. None of them even acknowledged the stall.

He waited. And waited. Listened in on inside jokes he would never understand, the sound of towels snapping, and the yelps that followed. Even when the pantheon of players had all but left, he waited until he heard a whistled rendition of _Killer Queen_ , because it was the only song Lazar and Pallas could agree on.

Lazar whistled back. The soft padding of feet grew louder, stopping in front of the shower with a loud whisk of the curtain. Pallas stood in the entryway, clad in only a towel. A tantalizing small towel. Lazar took the chance to give a long, low, appreciative wolf-whistle.

Pallas beamed as he tugged Lazar to his feet, somehow still an infuriating inch taller than him barefoot.

They kissed, deep and slow and explorative. All the time in the world was at their fingertips. And a nice, warm shower together would wash away anything they might’ve left behind.

Lazar parted, his hand brushing a few damp strands of hair from Pallas’ face.

“May I?” His hand was on the towel.

“Please.”

Naked, Pallas was a statue, every line of his body so carefully carved with the intent of appeal. Only he was real, alive with heat, his lips wet and parted, and Lazar’s name on his tongue. Lazar’s fingers traced along those lines, hands finding their way to Pallas’ adonis-belt, where they fit perfectly to him. Lazar’s gaze wandered lower.

“Is that a thyrsus in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“ _Do you always have to_ —” The rest of Pallas’ sentence collapsed as Lazar wrapped a hand around his cock.

Seeing it now, instead of the dark of the theater, it really was a nice shape. Lazar gave it a few strokes, wanting it as big as it had felt in his mouth, all the while Pallas was biting his lip red.

Lazar said, “Let’s get comfy.”

They ended up on the floor, Pallas sitting on his towel, with Lazar pressing a slick finger against his entrance.

The taut plain of Pallas’ stomach heaved with each breath. Propped up on his elbows, legs splayed wide, cheeks flushed a stunning shade of scarlet—he was everything Lazar could have wanted. He was incredulous at himself for not fucking him sooner.

Slowly, Pallas softened enough for Lazar’s finger to catch on the rim of his hole, but Lazar didn’t push in immediately. He didn’t know of Pallas’ sexual experience, and there was no need to rush. His finger circled the ring of muscle, only dipping in every so often. Pallas shivered.

It was tight as the first finger slipped inside. Pallas rocked his hips against it and attempted to fuck himself on Lazar’s finger.

“Ah-ah,” Lazar scolded. A caress to a muscled thigh soon hardened as Lazar held it in place, thumbing along the delicate skin as he added another finger. One of the few yielding places on his body. And Lazar was becoming intimately familiar with the others.

“So sweet of you to clean everywhere.” When Pallas flushed further, at the statement, Lazar smiled into a kiss to Pallas’ thigh. His voice was a whisper, “I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

“Me too.”

“Go on.” Lazar used his other hand to pull Pallas’ cheek apart and slid his fingers in deeper.

“I thought about what you did last night.”

“And hoping for _this_?” Lazar said as he applied gentle pressure to Pallas’ prostate. Just enough to stimulate, certainly not enough to satisfy.

Pallas moaned, “ _Lazar_.”

It continued; Lazar coating his hands in lube and slowly working Pallas open, relishing in the trembling of his body, how soft and tender he was under all that muscle. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, distinctly masculine in a way that made Lazar’s pulse race.

“You’re real tight,” he said as he pressed in a fourth finger. “Good boy, open up for me.” Kissing along the blooming trail of hickeys he’d left all over him, “Just like that.”

A little over a week ago, Lazar couldn’t have imagined himself in this position, not that he’d exactly wanted to. Where Pallas was pretty, Laurent was striking. Laurent, who had always planted the most illicit fantasies in Lazar's mind. Lazar, who had taken great pleasure in reaming out his mouth when Laurent pushed him too far.

He’d deserved it really, Laurent had the filthiest mouth on campus, and Lazar had always enjoyed shutting him up.

But the way Pallas’ eyes darkened with intoxicating heat, shaded by those distractingly long lashes of his, Lazar had the sudden urge to stick his entire hand in him. His fingers thrust hard into Pallas, who cried out sweetly, the sound bouncing off the tiles.

“Wait,” he grabbed Lazar’s wrist. “We can’t do this here.”

His grip was laughably weak. _Fuck_ , he was needy. Lazar said, “We won’t.” He ran his tongue along the line of Pallas’ cock, precum dripping down the sides. “But, I need you on your knees for me, okay?”

Lazar pulled his fingers out with an obscenely wet sound that rendered even him speechless. Did Pallas even know how much promise he had? Lazar supposed it was now his job to let him know.

The sight of Pallas on his hands and knees, presenting his ass, hole loose and dripping with lube, sent a surge throughout Lazar’s body.

Ignoring the growing erection in his own jeans, he cupped Pallas’ cheeks in his hands. When he spread them, a drop of lube trickled out from Pallas’ hole.

“ _Putain_ ,” Lazar groaned.

“What? You know I can’t— _fuck_.” Pallas’ words devolved into a flood of profanities as Lazar licked along his puffy rim. Now and then, his tongue would dip inside that enticing heat and he felt Pallas clench around him.

Using one hand to keep Pallas spread, the other traveled lower, trailing a gentle touch down from the perineum to the base of his cock. Pallas keened when Lazar took it and began pumping him hard.

He tasted better with his inhibitions dropped. A cloying sweetness that coated Lazar’s mouth. He couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted every last drop, till Pallas was a beautiful mess in his arms, begging for it every second he wasn’t getting it.

Pallas moaned, back arching as he came hard in Lazar’s hand, stroked through and shivering by the end of it.

Lazar’s hand was covered in Pallas’ cum. He brought his sticky fingers to his lips, sucking them clean as he had the day he decided to fuck a peach.

It had been an odd week, even by his standards.

As he lapped up the last of it from his wrist, Pallas slumped forward, heaving into the cold tile floor.

“Hey, Pallas?” he asked nonchalantly. “You still with me, babe?”

“Mmhmm.” Pallas rolled onto his back. “That was…”

“You’re amazing.”

Chuckling, “You too. I didn’t think you’d do that.” He pushed himself up to his elbows. “We should head out before the cleaning staff gets here.”

“We’re not done.”

“What?”

Lazar leaned over him and planted a kiss to his chest, collarbone, neck. “I’m not done with you yet.” He took his lips then, wordless sighs heavy with exultation.

The warmth of Pallas’ hand came to cup Lazar’s face, thumbing along his jaw. Running an absentminded finger along Lazar’s lip, he asked, “Are you going to fuck me on the floor of a college locker room?”

“Not exactly.”

“What's 'not exactly?'”

“I want to fuck you with my fist,” Lazar said. “See how much you can take. How gorgeous you'd look when you're all filled up.”

The look on Pallas’ face was one of pure bewilderment. Had Lazar gone too far? Shocked him more than flustered him? _Shit_ —

“Will it fit?”

Lazar blinked, “What?”

“Will it fit?” Pallas asked again, licking at the corner of Lazar’s mouth. “I’ve never taken a fist before.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Lazar’s lips. “Have I ever made it bad for you?”

“Not yet.”

“Where the hell was this side of you when I blew you in the theater?”

“This is entirely your fault,” said Pallas. “Now hurry up.”

“ _By Jove_ , contain yourself.”

His playful banter kept Pallas relaxed through the stretch, enough for Lazar to slide his fingers back inside, a welcoming warmth enveloping his hand. He got up to four, knuckle deep and glistening with lube.

At some point, Pallas had started to get hard again. His virility was as impressive as it was exhausting. And he’d given his cock a few strokes before Pallas took over, rolling his hips into his grip, fucking back against the fingers in his ass.

“Ready?” Lazar drizzled a generous amount of lube over his wrist, not bothering to remove his hand.

In a voice roughened from constantly crying out in pleasure, “Yeah,” said Pallas. He sounded almost completely out of it, wrung out and delirious, yet he somehow still hadn’t gone entirely soft. When Lazar prodded at his cock, Pallas’ whole body jumped as if shocked.

“Here I go,” Lazar said.

All five of his fingers were sucked back into slicked heat, the tired muscles barely putting up any resistance. He paid special attention to Pallas’ prostate.

“Does it feel good here?” Lazar twisted his hand sharply. He didn’t stop to let Pallas answer, only continuing to yank moans past his lips. “I can’t hear you. Tell me so I know.”

“It feels good.”

“Now, I need you to push for me, okay?” His hand soothed along his thighs again. “Push for me, mon cher. You’re doing so well. You’re so good to me.” Gentle coaxing was all it took before Lazar’s entire hand was inside.

Pallas squeezed around him, his walls clinging to him like they were asking for more. Lazar sighed, “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

Glassy-eyed, Pallas only hummed in agreement.

As much as he wanted to wreck that hole, Lazar knew he had to have some self-restraint. His own abandoned cock, tenting his jeans, was surely proof enough. His knuckles slid past Pallas’ rim and the rest of his hand followed, a slow in-and-out motion that willed the muscles to release the last of their give. Pallas’ hips worked in tandem to push Lazar’s hand in deeper.

After a few minutes, Lazar pulled back.

If Pallas’ hole had looked debauched before, it couldn’t compare to the moment Lazar freed his hand. It was no longer a cute little, pink pucker—fucked into a beautiful gape that couldn’t quite close. Lazar took both his hands and pressed his fingers inside, stretching Pallas wide.

Lazar said, “Wow, you’re wrecked.”

Breathily, Pallas said, “You like it?”

“I like.”

“Oh wait,” Pallas was up on one elbow. “What time is it?”

“Almost five, why?”

Pallas reached over to his bag, checking his phone. “The cleaning staff will be here soon.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up then.”

In less than ten breaths, Lazar was naked, tangled in Pallas' embrace under the gentle pressure of the hot shower. Pallas’ kisses were hot, his body was hot. He needed to be propped between Lazar and the wall for support. Four of Lazar’s fingers stirred lazily inside him. He couldn’t help it, it was so soft and warm inside him. He loved the feel of what he’d done.

Pallas clung to him in a bruise of a kiss as he came one, final time.

Lazar said, “Pallas, I need to breathe.”

A sigh into his chest, Pallas said, “Come to my room tonight.”

“ _Quoi_?”

“ _Naí,_ ” Pallas smirked.

“Hmm?” Lazar asked, fingers following a trail down the curve of Pallas' back. “ _Pardon_? I’m afraid that’s all Greek to me.”

Pallas bit his nose.


End file.
